The Changing Life of Cecilia Flint
by Snitchmeup
Summary: It was funny how a pure-blooded witch from one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight ended up working as a shopgirl for Madam Malkin. But then again, she never expected to be Sorted into Gryffindor, be friends with a Mudblood, or end up getting disavowed by her wealthy family. AKA the story of how a Slytherin wannabe ends up in Gryffindor and ends up evolving, much to everyone's chagrin.
1. Robes for All Occasion

**Summary:** Cecilia Flint finds herself lost in life after graduating from Hogwarts. With a new job that she doesn't love nor hate, a flat that will hopefully get past this year's winter, and a couple of estranged friends, can she navigate her life to true maturity?

 **Disclaimer:** I own nothing except for my words :)

Keep in mind that this is an OC fic mostly discussing pureblood culture. It will be extremely true to canon and the main characters from the series won't be appearing much, if at all.

Anyway, this is my first fic so any criticisms/ reviews on how to improve this story will be helpful. Also, English is not mt first language so I would also appreciate it if you point out amy errors to me.

 **Chapter 1: Robes for All Occasion**

* * *

Her hair is screwed into a tidy bun; not a hair out of place. Her robes are neatly pressed and pretty, albeit unfortunately, dyed a putrid yellow.

It makes her look diseased.

An enamel badge is pinned on her left. It reads **'CECILIE** ' in bold, black letters.

She stands near a rack of travelling cloaks - her hands folded - and dons the most approachable expression that she can muster.

On a clear bright day, the shop borders on empty, and even the windows show few figures walking about outside.

The bell rings, and her attention is diverted to the shop's entrance.

A trio of witches arrives, and heads towards her direction. She puts on her best smile. "Welcome to Madam Malkin's! How may I help you today?"

The oldest of them, a sullen-looking woman, glances briefly at her name tag and sniffs haughtily, "Well Cecilie..."

The misnomer causes a sliver of annoyance to bubble in her chest, but she forces it down. Instead, she widens her smile.

"I need dress robes. Two of them. Preferably in green." The woman spoke, her words flowing out in a posh and clipped manner.

She nods attentively, and looks down at the witch's two other companions. _Twins,_ she thinks briefly.

They looked exactly the same; from the identical woe-be-gone expressions, down to the similarly coloured green robes and stick-straight hair bound with angel bands. It was almost as if they existed as a single entity and not as a pair of twins.

They stare back at her; two pairs of piercing blue eyes meeting brown.

 _Downright eerie._

She leads them to the rack holding the most expensive robes.

* * *

Her clothing is just like the way she is - aesthetically pleasing.

She adores all of them, and every now and then, she runs her hand through every fabric just to feel the different  
sensations.

The crispness of her yellow organza summer dress.

The stiff finish of her blue poplin skirt.

The uniform texture of her purple winter coat.

It is easy to get lost in the diversity of her wardrobe; the assortment of textiles, and the uniqueness of each colour. Her clothes include every robe imaginable to her fashionably-inclined self, and she loves every occasion that gives her a chance to show off her prowess.

Especially if she gets to wear her favourite.

Out of all the pieces in her wardrobe, there is a particular article that entrances her the most. It is a pair of deep green leather gloves. She knows all the details about it by heart.

She receives it at the age of 12. It was supposed to be a surprise gift to celebrate her Sorting into Slytherin.

Sadly, she disappoints them.

They give it to her anyway, and she instantly loves it the moment she sees it. Never mind that it was too big for her hands, she still wears it nonetheless.

They come imported from Italy - handmade by some renowned artisan living in a secluded area, and enchanted with the most long-lasting warming and water-repelling charms.

The leather is surprisingly soft and supple, and at that moment, she became awestruck with the idea how something with such a rich texture can be made of dragon hide.

Its lining only increases her delight. They coat her hands in a layer of silky warmth. She finds that it is smoother than the outward skin.

She fingers the uniform hand-stitching; feels every inch of delectable leather, and finally wears them loosely on her hands.

It is pretty, prettier than whatever her preteen mind can fathom.

* * *

After an hour and a half (that seemed more like a day) of fussing and scrutinizing over the smallest of details, the trio was able to pick out suitable dress robes that satisfied all of them.

Unsurprisingly, they decided on matching green ones.

She finishes ringing up the purchases at the till. It amounts to a total of 50 Galleons, which is staggering for a middle-class family, but normal for someone belonging to an affluent wizarding family.

She surmises that they belong to the latter. Their behaviour is one that she is all too familiar with: the uppity attitude, the contemptuous tone, and the scowling expression.

They began to leave the shop, boxes in hand. Near the entrance, Madam Malkin cheerily thanks them for their patronage, and addresses the sullen witch as 'Mrs. Carrow'.

She was right - and not just an "affluent wizarding family," but a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight at that one too.

She sees the Carrow lady crack a smile at the acknowledgement.

The bell at the door rings, and she watches their retreating figures wistfully. It was funny how things change.

 _She used to be like that too_.

* * *

The gloves lie in the back of her closet. She doesn't wear them as often as she did in the past.

But she still loves them - in fact, they fit perfectly well now. It's just that there are many other colours more appealing to her.

Not to say that green is most unappealing. No, she likes it. It is the colour of magic - along with purple - and is present everywhere from the depths of the Great Lake to the Quidditch robes of her brother.

She is just partial to it differently.

To her, green is a lightly-coloured hue that is in the gleaming potions that she brews. It is in the clear, unfazed eyes of her best friend. It is in the Floo powder that makes her sneeze.

It isn't a dark shade that she finds ominous or depressing at all.

Much like the gloomy wallpaper of their estate's library.

Or the emerald pigment of her mother's party frocks.

Or the funereal tincture of those gloves that she liked so much.

To her, green is found unexpectedly on a passing day, at the moment when she looked out of her window and saw the English countryside - saw the tall trees and grasses swaying freely in the wide expanse.

Green is outside, and she finds it at the moment she left.

* * *

 **A/N:** Please review pretty please please, with cherry on top


	2. Home Sweet Home

**Disclaimer:** Once again, I own nothing except for my words.

 **Chapter 2: Home Sweet Home  
**

* * *

At the age of 10, her greatest accomplishment is an embroidered façade of home.

It takes her a year to finish it: a week in sketching out the whole design, a month in stitching some of the details, and the rest of the duration in filling out the widely-spaced cloth with coordinated threads. It is difficult - an entirely different process from her usual embroidery of floral patterns, and even more so that home is a four-storey country house in baroque architecture.

She might be talented in needlework, but for a child still as young as her, _patience_ is one of the many things she lacks. More often than not, she finds herself easily aggravated because of a wayward thread or otherwise bored at having to work tediously. It is easy for her to lose focus and it shows a lot in her existing progress, all of which is made up of work done at sporadic amounts of time.

She even nearly gives up and lights the embroidery fabric on fire when it has dawned on her that her planned project is much too high for her current capabilities to support.

Frankly, the only reason why she was able to finish it is because of a passive remark from Grammy Flint about her _"poor work ethic."_

Once done, she shows it to her parents with a display of immeasurable pride, which increases when her father charms it to match the original Flint Manor in real time.

She watches in amazement as blue threads from above begin to move at a leisurely pace, reminiscent of the clouds she has seen hanging about their home.

Strands of blue and brown shift next, and they become identical to the manor's colouring on a sunny day at noon.

The scanty green fibers resembling grass and trees flutter from an imaginary breeze, but an open window makes it a reality. At once, she feels it sweep on her clothes and face.

Always one to be overtly-proud of his children, her father offers to frame it. The next day, it hangs above the hearth in the drawing room for every inhabitant and visitor of the house to see.

Years later, she still feels that certain glow of pride whenever she enters the room and looks at the piece.

It is one of the things she has managed to do perfectly, and no one can say otherwise.

* * *

A week and a half passes before she finally finds a flat.

It is somewhere between Diagon and Knockturn Alley - a thing most convenient now that work will be but a walking distance away. It is however, closer to the shadier part of the shopping district, and it is with foresight that she brushes up on her knowledge of wards and considers buying an anti- _Alohomora_ lock.

She moves in on her day off, bringing with her her lone trunk.

Fortunately, or in this case, _unfortunately_ , she got exactly her money's worth: a crumbled-down brick fireplace, questionably stained beige walls, and a water closet more ancient than her family line (which was just her luck too, as she needed to go to the loo right after moving in).

It is hardly ideal, but she'll make do. It wasn't as if the flat was only ridden with faults; it came with some advantages too, no matter how inconsequential they were.

Thoughtfully, she ponders on how the whole area was spacious and well-ventilated enough to allow a cool breeze to linger around.

There is also that remarkable antique set of drawers lying in the corner of her bedroom, as well as the comfortable, yet old mattress on the bed frame.

It is the small victories that count, and as that Muggle film says: "Home is where the heart is".

She decides that her heart is definitely in the right place. With a little elbow grease and a slew of different cleaning charms, she will finally have someplace to call her own.

* * *

In the end, she doesn't have the heart to take down her prized embroidery from the hearth. She asks Gil to do it for her instead.

Meanwhile, she waits patiently in her bedroom.

Outside, the window reveals a purple-tinged sky with the sun being a small dot in the distance. It fills her room with a desolate air.

Her things are scattered all over, and sooner or later, her mother or father would appear to berate her on the disorderly state of the room.

It wouldn't matter though, for she would surely be gone before either one of her parents appeared.

She sits next to her perceptibly full trunk. It is filled with everything she has managed to cram in over the span of 20 minutes.

The door opens with a small creak, and she jumps.

A head of blond hair pops out, and she sighs with relief. It was only Gil.

His face looks stony, but in his hands is the gilded oak frame which she treasured so much.

She smiles.

* * *

The last of the doxies are dead and Vanished. She cracks open a window after ensuring that there were no more of the annoying pests.

The scent of doxycide starts to waft outside, and it is with tiredness that she removes the impromptu protective mask wrapped around the lower half of her profile.

Her head sticks out of the window, and she breathes in deeply, maximising the intake of fresh air.

Although undoubtedly useful, the potion in very large quantities, has the unlucky side-effect of causing one to feel light-headed. And fumigating the entire flat had never been an option - _it had to be done._

Of course, it was just her marvellous luck again that the summer heat decided to make its last appearance during the nascent autumn season.

As such, she had spent the hours before with the sun beating down her back, spraying doxies in every direction with an almost maniacal glee, all the while trying not to faint from dehydration.

But thankfully, it is now nearing twilight. The cool darkness is a welcome contrast to the scorching temperature from earlier, and also a testament to the hours she spent breaking her back.

She observes the scenery for a few moments before going back to her trunk. It is mostly unpacked, save for a few things. She crouches down and picks up a golden frame.

She turns back to the collapsed fireplace, and hangs it above the mantelpiece.

It is back in its usual place. She admires it in the darkness of her flat

In the frame, all of the minuscule windows glow hazily. Despite being numerous, it only lights up quite weakly.

With a closer survey, she wonders why the house is brimming with lights. The manor is dimly-lit most of the time, and at best, only several of its multitudinous rooms are lit. But now, it is positively oozing with incandescence.

 _There must be an ongoing party,_ she thinks.

A niggling feeling appears and it settles deep in her throat. She ignores it, focusing instead on the whole picture.

 _Home sweet home._

* * *

 **A/N:** So this chapter was a bit short. But don't worry, it will get longer in the next ones, like _immensely longer._ In the meantime, please continue to support and review this fic, thanks!


	3. Seeing Red

**Chapter 3: Seeing Red**

* * *

She plops down on one of the few available bar stools and signals for Tom the barman.

On a Friday night, the pub is crowded with drinking wizards and their cacophony and it takes a while before Tom gets to her.

"What can I get you?" He asks.

She looks at the menu and searches for the most filling dish. "Steak and kidney pie please. Oh, and a butterbeer too."

"Coming right up" he announces, pouring her a pint of butterbeer. He hands it to her before scurrying off.

She sips tiredly at her drink. Honestly, she had no clue that being a shopgirl was to be this hassling.

The shop was practically deserted over the course of her shift, with the exception of the customers who came by to browse the new collection of self-ironing robes.

And yet, the atmosphere inside the store only grew more stressed.

 _All because of Madam Malkin._

The proprietor of the store was a highly genial woman. It was partly due to her gracious disposition that she was able to keep her store up and running. She had kindly helped every witch and wizard that came to her store with a kind smile and refined tastes in fashion. Naturally, she had ended up with a decent following of loyal patrons; some of those having roots in high society.

However, it was due to her pedantic personality that she was able to maintain the repute of her business for decades, despite the growing number of competitors going toe-to-toe with her.

After all, the store catered to the mass collective, unlike Twilfitt and Tatting's array of the most extravagant vestments for only the richest wizards or Gladrags' dirt-cheap clothes for the more frugal ones.

Unfortunately however, Cecilia had been on the receiving end of the latter personality.

The woman was _fussy_ , fussier than her mother and that was saying something.

All day long, Madam Malkin had been hopping mad with the "alarmingly insufficient" supply of robes and the "out-of-season" wizardwear.

Cecilia hadn't an idea what she was going on about. Apparently, having the words 'Robes For All Ocassion' at the storefront justified having to buy robes of every fashion including the most obscure ones, in a quantity enough to clothe all of wizarding Europe.

Not to mention that there was at least two months before the winter sale.

School season has only begun, for Merlin's sake.

She polishes off the last drops of her butterbeer and sets down the pint at the counter. She was horribly parched; one effect of having to work overtime in organising the store's now-increasing inventory.

Tom comes back with a freshly-baked pie. It smells heavenly, she thinks, and good thing too, because the dish has just cost her two Galleons.

She orders another glass of butterbeer, and immediately tucks in at her food.

* * *

The Start-of-the-Term-Feast at Hogwarts is awash with a cornucopian galore of food.

On every table lies enormous silver platters laden with the ever-present Yorkshire pudding, roast beef, lamb chops, and other similarly appetising dishes.

All around, students are busy with consuming heaping amounts of foodstuffs.

That is, except for her.

She doesn't touch any of it; doesn't bother with even a morsel. She is still upset from the earlier events. She even ignores the well-meaning offers of food by the girl on her left.

She glances from where she is sitting to the farthest table in the Great Hall to look for Marcus. Her eyes meet those of her brother, and although he is eating, there is the presence of an oddly placating look on his face.

He mouths a 'talk to you later'. Or at least that's what Cecilia assumes since his silent words were muddled with the motions of chewing.

She nods back.

Satisfied with the interaction, she musters up enough appetite to take a Yorkshire pudding from a nearby plate. She reaches for the mashed potatoes next, and a moment later, the lamb chops.

The girl on the left looks on curiously but doesn't say anything.

* * *

After dinner, she cozies up with a box of Chocolate Cauldrons in front of the fireplace.

The sound of crunching chocolate is her only consolation, and the Fireswhisky filling banishes all of her weariness from today.

She hates liquor, but for _liquor in chocolate_ , she'll make an exception.

The bittersweet tang of dark chocolate feels good on her tongue anyway, and it makes the Firewhisky filling go down easier on her throat.

She huddles on her seat, clutching the half-eaten box like a dragon does with its clutch of eggs. It is yet another night which she chooses to spend in dullness.

It was as if graduating from Hogwarts sucked out all of the vigour from her.

Back at school, she could recall late-night escapades, exciting Quidditch matches, the Yule Ball, and the Triwizard Tournament.

She didn't actually participate **in** them, but it still had to amount to something, right?

And now here she was, halfheartedly munching on sweets in front of a fireplace that wasn't even on fire. Not that it was possible to light it up given its decrepit state.

She really should fix it sometime.

If you asked her though she was just being _sensible_. Graduating begets adulthood, and adulthood begets responsibility.

She had a stable job and a mostly stable flat, and all she had to give up was having fun.

 _Wait, that didn't sound right._

She had a stable job and a hopefully stable flat, and all she had to give up was her childishness in exchange for something even better: maturity.

Excellent. Or as Mother would say, _words worthy of their standing_.

Nonetheless, her friends would still call her boring and pompous, then bully her into going outside.

 _Her friends_.

Come to think of it, when had she last seen them? It had been months since she saw them, and weeks since they sent her a letter.

The niggling feeling makes itself known again, but she finally identifies it.

 _Loneliness._

With a pleasant buzz in her head, she gets up and blunders her way to a nearby drawer.

She searches into it until she finds her writing instruments - a few sheets of parchment, and a peculiar instrument she received as a gift last year called a "biro".

She lays them out sparsely on the crooked writing desk, pulls out a chair and sits on it. With a pleasant buzz in her head, she deliberates on whether to owl someone.

It had been her plan for some time. Her only acquaintances as of late were of those who were involved with her in mercantile matters. In addition, she had never replied to her friends' last owls.

The lump in her throat grows.

She can count the number of people she used to write on a frequent basis on a hand and a finger - her friends included. But with her current situation, it was now depleted into half.

She wasn't a bad friend, she was a bad person to start a relationship with overall.

She nearly breaks into tears.

At her side, her owl - Copper - screeches in anticipation of delivering a letter, insensitive of her feelings.

She blinks, and hesitantly picks up the biro, gazing upon it with confusion. She scrutinizes it carefully, trying to figure out its function. It looked plain and devoid of style; utterly unsuitable as a replacement for the fancy flamingo quill her friend broke.

Still perplexed as to how it is used, she follows her friend's instruction and removes the red cap. She squints in curiousity as a miniscule, metallic tip is revealed. Not sharp, but not blunt either. Clearly, this is the one for writing.

Just to be safe though, she still tests the other end...to no avail.

She composes a few sentences. It is a good start, she decides, even if she scrawls out most of them in the next seconds that follow, in favour of writing something else that captures her feelings more.

She sends out three letters by the stroke of midnight.

* * *

In the end, she never gets a chance to talk to her brother.

After the feast, the first years are immediately ushered into a line by their Head of the House, which for her is a tall, intimidating witch with half-moon glasses whose name she had already forgotten (being too preoccupied with her current problem). They are led into their quarters, then to their dormitories.

She shares the room with a bunch of giggling girls. They are sequestered at the opposite side of the room, while she is left alone by her bed. Her ears prick up at the sound of their laughter, but she pays them no heed. She pretends to be fixated on her stack of newly-bought textbooks.

One of them, a witch with uncreased eyes and the frizziest hair she has ever seen, notices her presence. She heads to her direction in all smiles.

"Hi! My name's Juniper Cooper, but everyone calls me June for short! Nice to meet you!"

The witch - now named Juniper - offers a handshake far too late. Cecilia takes note of this with smug satisfaction; a feeling of superciliousness at having better manners.

She accepts the hand and shakes it firmly - just as her mother taught her.

"Pleased to meet you as well. I'm Cecilia Flint."

Her smile widens in mentioning her family name. "I'm a descendant of Josephina Flint. She's my great-great grandmother."

"Ever heard of her?" She asks expectantly.

It was a silly question. Everybody knew Josephina Flint.

Juniper shook her head, "No, but I'm sure she was cool enough to be Minister of Magic...whatever that is!" At this, she laughs like she had just told a joke.

Cecilia nods back forcedly and laughs along. This witch was extremely odd. What kind of witch or wizard didn't know what a Minister of Magic is? Better yet, who hadn't heard of Josephina Flint? Children half their age knew all of these facts.

Within a second, Juniper pipes up again excitedly, "Oh, wait! This is one of those wizardy stuff, right? Like the other version of those who you call- what was that? Yes, Muggles!"

Her eyes grow wide in excitement, "My pa's the same too! 'Cept he's a policeman! You know, the Muggle version of an auror, was it? Anyway I'm Muggleborn so I wouldn't know for sure! How about you?"

The words were said in a rapid-fire succession, and for once, Cecilia became at lost for words while her brain tried to process what was said. She stood dumbly until suddenly, it clicked.

 _"Mudblood"_ she hisses, her eyes narrowing into tiny slits.

Gasps of shock resounded throughout the room.

That night, Cecilia slept with all of the curtains closed in her four-poster bed. She ignored the low-volumed chatters and laughter coming out from her canopy.

She needn't associate with them at all. Their filth could stain her even within a yard away.

She didn't need friends like them.

* * *

 **A/N:** I'll be the first to tell you. Cecilia is a little shit. But then, so was I at the age of eleven. Any thoughts on the matter? Kindly review! Cheers!


	4. Crying at the Loo

**A/N:** This chapter is longer than the rest. Enjoy! And please don't forget to review or follow! On an unrelated note, how does one find a beta reader?

 **Chapter 4: Crying at the Loo**

* * *

The _mudblood_ fights back when she realises the full meaning of the moniker. With the help of the other girls in the room, they launch their payback.

They start out small; from purposely excluding her from their newly found circle of friends to whispering snide remarks about her under their breaths.

It works, and they enjoy a laugh soaked entirely with schadenfreude when their victim ends up spewing more prejudiced expletives out of anger.

Eventually, they move on to bigger things - i.e. just generally making the daily life of the _pureblooded swot_ (AKA Cecilia) miserable.

On an ordinary day, they would leave rubbish on her bed to find - small enough to be of inconsequential matter, but large enough to be noticeable - and a morning surprise in the form of today's needed textbooks mysteriously disappearing.

In class, they laugh at her expense when she fails to recite the mathematical formula for Transfiguration. And at Potions, they tamper with her weighing scales in an effort to sabotage her work.

They don't leave her unscathed during mealtimes either. Once, the trifle she was eating exploded, leaving her with an assortment of sweet-tasting tidbits...on her face.

At the end of the day, they get a thrill from serving their brand of justice on the muggle-hating girl, and once again they begin to plot anew, ready for next day's round.

And at the end of the day, Cecilia remains only more spiteful, if not more embittered by certain Gryffindors and their values, and friendless after being purposely shunned by her peers.

By the eighth (or was it ninth?) day of having to endure broken bottles of ink staining her things, crumbs of crisps scattered on her bed, and almost no one talking to her, she cracks.

She cries it out in the disused girl's lavatory on the third floor. Snot and tears flow out from her like an open faucet, and she tries to resist the urge to throw around a hissy fit like she did when she was younger - to lash out on any object in the bathroom, because _she can't bloody well break a mirror with just her eleven-year old fist, can she?_

She settles for kicking the cubicle door repeatedly instead, and she buries her tear-streaked face in her hands as she tries to calm down her frenzied breathing.

Everything is quiet.

From the distance, she hears a set of heavy footsteps pass the bathroom. She hears them enter.

She freezes up, and goes as silent as she can. With a heavy desperation, she hopes it isn't the _mudblood_ or any of her cronies.

The footsteps enter the cubicle beside her, and the door swings with an audible bang.

Her fists clench up.

"Oy, are you done with your weeping? I hear those girls did a real number on you," a voice calls up from above.

She looks up and blinks through red-rimmed eyes. It is her brother, his face hovering over the divider.

"Gil told me to come get you. Potions class starts real soon, and as your brother, apparently I have the obligation ask you to get your arse out here and into the dungeons."

She doesn't reply.

Marcus huffs and urges her, "C'mon, get out of there already. Weren't you the one who said that staying in public loos for even a minute is unhygienic?"

He looks around and grimaces, "It's grotty in here, so you might wanna hurry it up."

His face disappears, and she hears the sound of him jumping from the toilet. He knocks on her door. Halfheartedly, she gets up and steps out.

Within seconds, she is crying again.

Before her, Marcus sighs.

* * *

The clock reads 11:45.

Only fifteen more minutes before lunch.

She has finished altering a set of robes for the store display. Humming to herself, she dresses a mannequin with it.

She contemplates for a moment if she can take her break early.

Outside of the stock room, she hears the weak titters of witches. There is also the shrill tone of Madam Malkin's voice, no doubt entertaining customers with wits as sharp as her shears.

She forgoes her earlier thought, knowing better than to disturb her boss with her customers. With a sigh, she resigns herself to spending the last minutes with nothing else to do.

Another thought pops in her mind. She could always practise her dressmaker's charms. One could never be too proficient at taking accurate body measurements.

Or she could just sit idly. Twiddling her thumbs.

Yes, the second idea sounded better.

Perhaps she'll even pinch one of the trashy romances Madam Malkin hides among the rolls of fabric.

She was just getting ready to perch herself on a stool with the book in hand, when the door to the stock room burst open.

She freezes, and hopes desperately that it isn't who she thinks it is. The notion of her being seen as some _slacker_ would put a real damper on her _already-suffering_ job opportunities.

And the notion of her being seen with her boss' trashy romance novel would definitely be worse.

She hides the book behind her even though it is too late.

By some miracle, it isn't her boss.

It is a witch with slit eyes and straw-textured hair. She is grinning from ear-to-ear.

Cecilia scowls, "Juniper?"

* * *

To Marcus' chagrin, they end up skiving off classes in the girl's lavatory.

Of all places.

He tries to avoid making contact with anything, except with his feet to the ground. He wasn't squeamish with dirt, playing Quidditch and all, but Cecilia's thoughts on public toilets really put some ideas in his head.

For one, he was starting to notice a trace of black slime on the edge of a cubicle door. And on the toilet seat. And on the mirror as well, if he squinted very carefully.

He shuddered.

He stands stolidly in his original place. His sister is still keeping up the waterworks and for a second, he wonders how she hasn't ran out of tears yet.

His parents would be livid if he were to do nothing. And it's not as if they weren't livid enough already, with her not going into Slytherin. They would reach the end of their tether if they found out that he didn't keep his promise of _"being a good brother to Cecilia and helping her adjust at Hogwarts."_

He repeats the words in his head with a mocking lilt and snorts. "You done yet? We can't stay here forever, you know."

The only response he receives is a muffled gurgle. But thankfully, her sobs begin to subside.

He breathes with relief. Phase one of _"being a good brother to Cecilia and helping her adjust at Hogwarts"_ is complete.

When she has calmed down reasonably and relays her story, Marcus listens with utmost attention. He sympathises as best as he could for a Slytherin to a Gryffindor, and tries to figure out the best course of action for her.

Merlin, if his parents were around they would be proud of him.

The first solution he comes up with is to just pommel them all and be done with it. But then, he realises that this is the sole reason stopping him from directly interfering.

Cecilia might not be one of Salazar's kin, but **he** is. And with a mere show of his size or a clenching of his fist, he could easily ensure that his housemates wouldn't lay a hand on his sibling.

However, it was a different story when the trouble came from another house - specifically one out of his reach. In fights among his housemates, at least he can rely on them not to snitch him out to Snape or anyone. But with a bunch of Gryffindors... _11-year old Gryffindor girls,_ no less.

If he were to retaliate against them, his parents would chastise him even more than if he were to do nothing about Cecilia's problem.

Honestly, she should have just gone into Slytherin. Or any house for that matter. Anywhere was better than being with the brassy reds. Things would be **so** much easier for all of them.

He'd even argue that she didn't seem very Gryffindor-like with the way she was blubbering earlier.

He rubs his chin deep in thought. He could pay a group of similar girls to beat them up. No wait, Slytherin girls are loathe to getting their skirts dirty. Perhaps a Ravenclaw then? Or a Hufflepuff? Maybe even a Gryffindor?

He chuckles at the last thought. Perhaps he'll pay his sister to solve her own problem.

He laughs, and Cecilia turns to look at him with her red puffy face. He clears his throat quickly, careful not to trigger another bout of endless tears.

He makes up his mind at once. This problem called for the Slytherin mindest - a tactic that involved _more cunning and resourcefulness._

He gives a crooked grin, "Sister, you like sewing, don't you?"

* * *

Cecilia's eyes roll for the umpteenth time in the day.

Her customer is horrible. She kept on swaying from side to side, fidgeting with her limbs, and just _plain moving_.

It might be a good sign for someone like, say Madam Malkin, to be able to be able to see plainly a happy - if not a tad too giddy - customer. But it is quite the opposite for someone being expected to take _"pinpoint precise body measurements."_

The woman was obviously excited about something, given that she came in 15 minutes (oh wait, it was only 5 minutes now) **before** lunch break instead of waiting **after**.

Cecilia sneers. _Well, joke's on her._ She will now be forced to work well until after noon so whatever juicy tidbit the literal witch had can wait.

She didn't even know what she was in here for. The witch was _absolutely allergic_ to buying her own robes, preferring to use her friends instead as her own personal shopper.

Not that Cecilia can blame her; the woman dressed like a patterned quilt newly emerged from a pile of hipogriff dung.

Sweet Merlin, she even came in here looking like a slob. Well, _even more of a slob_ ; Juniper wasn't exactly that meticulous about her appearance.

For one, she was still wearing that dreadful orange Quidditch jersey - now streaked with innumerable mud and grass stains. And her hair resembled the twiggy end of her highly-prized broom. She also reeked of sweat and the sun, and her eyebrows looked like caterpillars, but that was unrelated to the issue.

Cecilia wrinkled her nose, "Ugh, did you come here directly after practice?"

Juniper beamed and nodded, her frizzy hair bobbing even more than usual. Silently, Cecilia made a mental note to take her to the beauty salon next time.

"Yeah, I did! I was trying to catch you for lunch." Her eyes give a merry twinkle, "I've something to tell you."

Nonchalantly, she draws up her hand to her staticky-looking hair, and Cecilia gasps breathlessly.

It is the unmistakeable glimmer of an engagement ring.


End file.
